


forget the truth until tomorrow

by willowcabins



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcabins/pseuds/willowcabins
Summary: Wynonna realised that perhaps this was happiness. Hot roads, dusk in the back of your throat, and a warm hand in yours.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



When Mother died, Willa held Wynonna’s hand. Wynonna was young -- she could barely see past the knees of all the adults in attendance, as they crowded around the graves and muttered quietly. There was the small trill through the conversation, arguing that Earp Wife should not be buried on consecrated ground.

“There’s a cross road not four miles from here,” the tailor hissed to his son. “They should bury her, and stick a stake in her heart, to make sure the bitch doesn’t haunt us.” Willa squeezed Wynonna’s hand, and slowly turned around to glare at the man. Wynonna looked resolutely ahead, watching her father cradle the baby in his arms, tears streaming down his face. 

“That bitch,” Willa hissed, her voice sharp as glass, “was my mother.”

The man behind her cleared his throat, and whispered: “pardon me, Willa.”

Wynonna shivered. Willa turned back around. 

“I hate everyone,” she murmured quietly, her breath warm against Wynonna’s ear. “It’s like they don’t even know who we are.”

_ We _ . The word thrilled her. She shivered, and nodded.

It’s like they had no idea.

 

Taking care of Waverly is what kept their father sane. Willa and Wynonna watched patiently as he sang the baby to sleep, told the baby amazing stories of adventure, and cooed over her. Wynonna pushed down the bile of jealousy that crept into her throat like vines, threatening to choke her. Her father had never fawned over her like this -- even now, he would look up and see Willa and Wynonna watching him, and he would flinch.

They looked like their mother. Give him time, the aunts murmured. It’ll be fine, everyone promise. Just give him time.

But spring turned into summer, and Father still couldn’t look at them.

 

“Come here.” Willa held out to her hand to Wynonna, and Wynonna immediately took it. Willa’s hand was clamy, and she was taller now, and Wynonna grinned at her as they started off the dirt path.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We’re going to go into town.”

“On our own?”

“Yes. I’m going to show you where Wyatt Earp drank.”   
“You are?”

“It’s the day before your birthday, Wynonna. It’s time.” Wynonna looked up at Willa; there was dust in her hair, and the boots she was wearing were ever so slightly too big for her, but the wide broad-rimmed hat she wore made her look taller again. Wynonna didn’t have a hat - she just squinted up, and grinned at Willa, who was outlined by the hot sun. She grinned back.

Wynonna realised that perhaps this was happiness. Hot roads, dusk in the back of your throat, and a warm hand in yours.

 

Willa braided Wynonna’s hair. When Wynonna came out short cold showers, Willa would be waiting, with a daunting comb. Brushing out a week’s worth of tangles was no easy experience, but Willa saw it an exercise in patience. She told Wynonna every story she had ever heard about, or ever read, while she slowly teased the tangles out of her hair, her fingers gentle, and grazing her skull.

 

“Good morning.” The words ripped apart Wynonna’s world. She looked up from the bowl of ceral and stared at her father. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking down at the tiles, ashamed. And so he should be, Wynonna thought, sitting up straighter -- he had all but abandoned her and Willa for the last couple of months. It was almost September now -- they had spent the whole summer playing out among the reeds, eating the burnt bread that Willa called Grilled Cheese sandwiches and playing along the dirt road into town. But  _ now _ their father was greeting them. Wynonna wanted to glare at him, give him the silent treatment.

But Willa nearly dropped her spoon into her cereal, and sat up straighter. 

“Good morning, father,” she murmured.

“It’s time you started your training,” he said gruffly. Willa slid off her chair and straightened up.

“Yes sir,” she replied, and suddenly, Wynonna was painfully alone again.

 

While her father trained Willa, Wynonna had to babysit the baby. It wasn’t really a baby anymore -- she was a toddler now, and she live saying Wynonna’s name as “Nona.” She liked sitting in Wynonna’s lap and drawing -- well, scribbling on paper, really, but Wynonna’s father called them drawings -- and Wynonna realised that she liked this pudgy kid.

And yet. The second the door opened, and their father walked in with Willa, Wynonna would hand the baby over, and rush up to Willa. Willa, unwinding her thick scarf, would smile.

“What did you learn?” Wynonna demanded. Willa grinned, and gestured to her room.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

 

Wynonna did well enough at school, but Willa shined. She walked through the school yard like a queen, and Wynonna smirked at boys as they gaped at her. Willa was  _ hers _ and none of them had any chance with her.

Willa was hers, and Wynonna was happy.

 

On That Night, the push of revenents against the house was a force, and Wynonna could barely breathe. Waverly was sobbing, and Wynonna was hushing her, clutching at her, whispering.

“I don’t know what to do,” their father groaned. “We should have been protected.”

Glass shattered. Willa looked in that direction, and then dropped into a crouch in front of Wynonna. She stared at her, ignoring Waverly.

“I love you,” she whispered, pushing back Wynonna’s hair and staring into her eyes. “I love you,” she repeated, and then she got up, and ran towards the kitchen.

 

Wynonna had thought that losing her mother would be a real tragedy. But it was nothing  _ nothing _ compared to losing Willa.

The world was ragged; there was a hole in the space where Willa should have been. There was no one to hold Wynonna after the police came. There was no one to tell her it would be okay, no one to lie for her when they asked her what happened. Wynonna was full of anger and bile and poison, and she spat at everyone, hissing, aching, burning, crying for the return of Willa.

But Willa didn’t come.

And so Wynonna Earp faded.

 

And then suddenly, she was forced back. She didn’t fit well into purgatory anymore, not that she let herself feel the jagged edges of her shape. Drink dulled the pain of being forced back into an old mold, and she drank every day, desperate.

And still. The room in the house with its door left closed cut at Wynonna. Waverly, and her kind smiles and cheerful bright laugh, all of which was so unlike Willa, burned. Every time someone called her the Heir, she remembered Willa’s husky voice. “I love you.”

Then why did she die?

 

Willa was standing in front of her. Wynonna gasped, gaped, and choked. Willa smiled. “My name is Eve,” she said, and Wynonna shattered all over again.

 

Days later, when they were back at the house, Willa pale and shaking, Wynonna balled her hands into fist. “Do you remember anything?” she whispered. Willa shook her head slowly.

“No,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

Willa sat down, and patted the bed next to her. Wynonna slumped down, staring at the floor. Willa reached out, carefully, and combed a hand through Wynonna’s hair. Wynonna stiffened, but Willa ignored her, and started braiding Wynonna’s hair.

“Do you remember?” Wynonna asked quietly, tears leaking down her face.

“No,” Willa murmured, gently braiding small strands of hair. “I don’t remember places, or people, or things. But I remember  _ you _ , Wynonna. I  _ remember. _ ”

If only Wynonna had known.

But she didn’t, and instead, she leaned back into Willa, and cried.

To her, it felt like coming home.

Maybe it didn’t matter that it was a lie.

 


End file.
